


Holiday

by cofax



Category: Farscape
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:57:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>For the first time in a quarter-cycle you aren't worried about being attacked. </i>  Aeryn & John get a short break.  Written for Thea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holiday

There is nothing you should be doing right now. It's an unfamiliar feeling.

The air is soft, full of a gentle ringing hum the locals say comes from tiny animals in the vegetation all around you. The city is full of plant life: green, blue-green, purple trees along the boulevards; sprawling vines laden with tiny yellow blossoms cascading down from windows; soft purple moss between the cobbles of the streets.

Crichton slouches across from you, his coat thrown over the end of the padded bench. In one hand he holds a brightly-colored wooden box, a trinket he bought on the street. He's been playing with it for the last arn, trying to open it the way the vendor showed him. He has been unsuccessful; you suspect this has something to do with the four empty glasses on the table between you. He sees you raise an eyebrow and grins unrepentantly.

"This working for ya?"

For the first time in a quarter-cycle you aren't worried about being attacked. The retrieval squad is gone--you carefully close off the part of your brain that reminds you of the cost--and Talyn is almost fully healed.

The plate before you is almost empty, but you pick up a scrap of fruit and nibble on it. It's rich, dark, a blue that's almost black. Crichton didn't like it, said it tastes like "licorice", whatever that is, but it cuts the bitter tang of the fellip nectar almost perfectly.

The sky overhead is the same color as the fruit, but across the northern horizon is a wash of color. Greens, yellows, pinks, reds--curtains of color swing and sway, refusing to move predictably and yet strangely soothing for all that.

You shrug. "We can't leave while these sunspots are happening. But nobody else can land, either."

"And?"

You smile and stand, slowly, stretching luxuriously in the mild air, letting your vest ride up to expose your stomach. Crichton's eyes focus there, his smile a little fixed, as you step completely over the low table.

Still moving slowly, you ease onto the bench next to him, one leg curled underneath you. You keep your weapon close, but you will not need it.

Instead, you reach to the table and pick up the last piece of fruit. You squeeze it in your palm, letting the rich dark juice run down your wrist. Crichton's smile is curving now, stretching across his face, his eyes glittering in the uncertain light.

You pop the last bit of fruit into your mouth and roll it around before swallowing, and then you--carefully, leisurely--begin to lick the juice from between your fingers. You don't look at him while you do this. When your tongue reaches the juncture of your thumb and index finger, a broad hand wraps around your wrist.

"Aeryn."

You let your eyes widen innocently as he draws your hand to his mouth. You don't squirm as he takes your fingers between his lips, one at a time, his eyes fixed on yours.

You may bite your lip, just a little, when he nips softly at the base of your thumb. You may calculate how many steps it is to the room you have rented in this small guest house, as his tongue charts the tendons in your wrist. You may estimate how many microts it will take to remove his clothing as his hand slips further up your arm.

"Crichton," you may say. "This is working for me just fine."


End file.
